by Kal Smagh
Once it was clear, I asked, "How late were you here last night?"
She shook her head, "At least 2 o’clock." Stretching her arms overhead she asked, "How were your parents when you got home? Did you tell them about your purse snatcher?" She started putting forms into a bag and I, following her lead, did the same.
"I didn’t tell much to my mother, else I would have been ages before bed. She probes my life incessantly. My father was mostly asleep. I didn’t share anything much about the purse either until this morning."
"Did you say anything at all about the police?"
I shrugged, "Mentioned it. They were focused on me being unhurt. But it was terrible to have a secret about the lyrics and not be able to speak with anybody until here in the office. It would end up with her asking me what the lyrics were about. And then if I had any prospects for a boyfriend."
Freda chuckled, then checking her watch said, "We’d better get moving."
With our bags of forms and pens and pencils we boarded a green double decker bus. We sat on the lower level to avoid our hair blowing around.
Freda shared Beatle history as we held our sign-up forms in gray bags on our laps. Since the boys had recorded in the summer, they had been playing shows nonstop. They were just back from a return trip to Germany with the prospect of recording again later in the month. But still no album had been made yet.
She asked, "You really haven’t seen them play before?"
"Nope."
She winked, "I will be watching you tonight. To see your reactions."
"I see how everyone acts. I felt I was missing out yesterday."
"You were. We both were. They’re a riot."
"Riot? Like how?"
"You’ll see. It's just them being themselves, happy, funny, energetic." Her eyes flashed, "The audience goes bonkers. Sometimes it's hard to hear, and sometimes you don’t even care that you can’t hear them."
The buildings flowed past outside the bus windows and my interest was piqued. I couldn’t wait until the night. Come on day...get over and bring on the darkness!
"And it’s strange. It's like they’re singing to me. I’m sure each girl feels that same way." She paused for a moment with her memory, then shrugged, "But Brian needs us to be ready to keep this fan club growing. Every day, better and better. It’s something special here. It’s still such a burden on Brian. The recording contract is so important to him."
It was no wonder that Brian was feeling stress and wanted no distractions. I was the definition of a distraction if his focus was pulled away to attend to my troubles about last night. I tried to put it aside but it bothered me. Why would somebody rob Mr. Prescott and then what were the odds that another person would rob me in front of a group? I needed to find out more and be able to do it without anybody else knowing; they didn’t need the problems. Mostly I just wanted my driving license back. But, what kind of person would steal in front of everybody?
Our trip across the River Mersey was done and we arrived a few blocks away from the venue. Walking the remaining distance, I was astounded to see that there was already a line around the block. We walked to the front, passing laughing kids who didn’t notice us. My mind was set on our tasks that I now had two shows experience performing.
Following Freda, strutting forth like a professional (on my second day of work) I spoke to the doorman at the theatre and they produced a card table that looked almost new compared to the one at the Cavern. Everything was shiny in the shop windows and their reflections of the red illuminated bulbs of the theater in the early evening.
Then, finally after setting it up in front of the entrance we were suddenly mobbed by excited girls and boys who knew why we were here and meant to take advantage of it. They descended on us like happy, teenaged ants at a sweet candy picnic. The forms were flying off the table and then flying back onto the table and we quickly ran through all of our papers, like a wind was blowing and swept it all up in a hurricane.
This was going fast!
I looked at Freda who was near out of forms too. In desperation I started a new list where people just signed up on a piece of paper, leaving their information in unruly scrawl, and I kept it close in hand rather than allowing one paper per person. As we quickly ran through even that idea, consuming all of the space in a swarm, I glanced at it and it looked as if the wild penmanship was of a people belonging in a loony bin.
Yet, despite all the frenzy, my anticipation ascended as the darkness outside descended and the crowds were led inside and there were still many others mulling around who did not have tickets and just wanted to be nearby.
"Is that a Beatle?!"
Heads whipped around in unison at where someone was pointing, weighing the evidence.
There was so much laughing and talking and waves of excitement washing over the group at any potential sighting of the boys. I even caught myself looking when they thought they saw one of the Beatles and pointed and girls screamed. After craning my own head several times at the screams...it was desperately hard to resist...I noticed Freda’s pursed lips.
Freda said to me, "They’re not here, won’t be here for another hour at least. And they certainly won’t come in the front entrance."
"I thought they came to the show early. No?"
"They do. If they can. But they’re coming from another show."
"Another one today already?"
She nodded, "All the time."
We exhausted our supply of paper and there was no more to write on.
Freda directed me to break down the card table as she stuffed all of the papers into her bag that it could handle. I snapped the legs back underneath the now wobbly and battered table and took it to the entrance where the doorman accepted it with a look of disdain.
"What are we supposed to do now?" I asked.
"Let’s go down the street and get a bite to eat and then we’ll come back."
Across the street playing a guitar was the fellow who’d walked into the Cavern with a guitar case. The one who’d shouted for Wayne Prescott. What was his name? He was strumming and singing with his guitar case opened on the sidewalk, soliciting tips. There was loose change tossed into the case, shining in the street light. People looked at him but few were paying attention.
Freda said, "He sounds like an...injured animal." I stifled a laugh.
"Who is that, again?"
"Marcus Jacobs."
I was out of money except bus fare. It was embarrassing and I had to ask Freda to pay for my snack.
"I’m sorry. I don’t have any to spare."
"It’s alright."
After eating we returned and it was nearly showtime. The marquee over the street was brightly lit and emblazoned in bright red letters were the words:
Tonight: Beatles
The crowd was still so thick and all of the fans in their coats milled around hoping for any glimpse. I felt like royalty walking with Freda up to the main entry. The show was beginning, our work was done for now, and inside we spoke to the doorman and the ticket man and, first class riders, were waved through into the arena.
Inside it was packed with people, hot, and a warm-up band was finishing. The stage had red curtains illuminated by bright overhead and underneath lights. The crowd was talking in high pitches and laughter permeated the auditorium, echoing off the walls so much I felt sound waves hitting my body. Groups of people were chanting "We want the Beatles!" and others chanted names of their favorite Beatle "We want Ringo! We want John!". The whole place was on the verge of going bonkers while the first band exited the stage. I followed Freda as she pushed her way through the aisle, she was pointing and talking but I couldn't hear her words.
She found Brian in the back and we went to join him, our seats held open in this delightful melee.
"Hello, ladies," he greeted, half shouting.
I couldn’t get over it! I was here, and ready to see myself what all the fuss was about. No, it was more than fuss. It was some kind of fervor with its grip on the cro
wd already. Excitement like electricity pulsed through the auditorium and you could see it wending and winding its way around and through everyone, like a lightning storm of giddiness.
An announcer sporting a sharp blue suit emerged onto the stage in front of the curtains and the crowd bellowed and screamed, the energy level gaining intensity. The announcer took a few moments to call thanks for support to various promoters and radio stations through the venue and then shouted over the cacaphony, "And now, the Beatles!"
Freda squeezed me on the shoulder.
My mouth dropped open as the audience’s cheers catapulted into a deafening roar. I felt as if we’d been launched into the sky and Freda was the only thing keeping me from floating away. My whole body was shaking and I felt I was going to burst open in happiness.
The curtains pulled back and there they entered the stage into these ear splitting roars. I nearly jumped out of my skin at how beautiful and mature they looked on stage in their black jackets white shirts and skinny black ties. Their boots were shiny and their hair was floppy and they moved with such overwhelming confidence. It was madness. Paul waved to the crowd.
Ringo took his place behind the drums and John, Paul, and George began the opening chords to a song called Be-Bop-A-Lula; I recognized it as a cover of the Gene Vincent song from the stacks at NEMS. Absolute pandemonium!
Finishing, they bowed together, and Paul addressed the crowd through cheers and cries, "Good evening. How do you do?"
I couldn't make out the rest; his voice was engulfed in response from the audience.
Then they pushed into their song that whipped the crowd over the top called I Saw Her Standing There, Paul working the bass over like a lead guitar, and George with a monster solo. Then came Love Me Do, their song on the radio. John’s harmonica cutting forth. The crowd, recognizing the song, went berserk.
Brian said, "Do you remember stocking this song in the store?"
I nodded emphatically, yes. I didn’t realize how well they played together, so smooth and polished. But also, energetic and driving the crowd forward. They laughed and joked and seemed to be having the greatest time while the crowd screamed and, true to Freda’s statement, sometimes you could barely hear them singing.
As they played Brian gave notes and asked that I write them down. I was without even one piece of paper that had not been scratched on by any one of hundreds of crazed fans out front. I reached into my bag and pulled out a crumpled heap and folded it flat as I could on my knee while everyone else stood above me.
The boys broke into a rollicking number called Besame Mucho. The crowd pounded on chair backs, clapping rapidly, jumping around like banshees. Paul sang while smiling, while George had his head down working his guitar, and Ringo pounded out the drums. John looked across the audience like he was in charge, completely composed., with a wide stance.
Hopping back to my feet Brian shouted over the raucous noise of the cheering crowd and Paul’s bass notes, "John needs a haircut. And his tie is not done properly." He continued surveying and added, "Paul’s guitar strings, untidy. Trim them." I wrote it down and awaited any further instructions.
They played for less than an hour and the crowd was completely ecstatic and pulsing with energy throughout. In my short time sitting down I could not see anything except swinging ponytails and the backsides of the boys. You had to stand up and even be on your tiptoes in order to catch a glimpse of them where they played, masters of the stage. Especially when in the back row.
Paul spoke and introduced their final number, Kansas City, and just like every song prior they bowed in unison, then disappeared off stage in a single file while the ecstatic crowd continued cheering. Paul and John waved and for a second it felt like they were waving at me. I waved back just in case and caught out of the corner of my eye Freda waving too, then we both turned facing one another and laughed at how silly it was to think what we both knew every other girl in the audience was also thinking.
The concert over, Brian excused himself to go backstage and I handed him my single crumpled note. He looked at it with a little bit of wonder at why I had used that paper since it was in such poor shape. But he didn’t say anything and then disappeared.
Freda and I were left to find our way back to Liverpool. pushing back through the aisles to the cold fresh air. Outside, legions of girls and boys were out on the street milling around, pumped up with energy.
"Why are there still so many kids here?"
"They’re trying to see them exit the side door."
"How will the boys get out with so many people? It looks like they’re ready to pounce."
Freda shook her head. "They’re not in there. When they left the stage, they went straight out to a car that drove them away before everyone else even left their seats."
"Really?"
"Yes. I doubt Brian saw them. He knows better."
Walking away I turned to look back at the spectacle. No one was leaving except us it seemed. Then I saw Brian talking to Melanie Bumpus. Actually, he was walking out of the front of the theater and she was following him.
"Look at this," I nudged Freda.
She saw them and said, "That lady sure talks with her hands."
It was true. Melanie’s speech was punctuated with wide open arms and then one falling to her side while the other seemed to spin cotton candy at a village fair.
"I wish I knew what they were saying," I said.
"I can tell you," Freda gave me a look of weariness, "She wants Brian to book the boys at the Splinter Club. Prescott’s club."
"Oh really."
"He won’t do it. She just wants money and they don’t have a big crowd to offer. Big for them maybe but," she waved a hand at the multitude of kids spilling out on the sidewalk, "look at all this. They can’t offer this."
"She might try her feminine wiles on him."
"Good luck. He’s too smart. Won't fall for it. She’s acting for Prescott and Brian knows that just like he said this morning."
Catching our bus, our gray bags slung over tired shoulders, the journey back was in a warm afterglow of what I had just witnessed on stage. I think I understood for the first time just what they brought to their growing swarm of fans. They made me feel happy. More than that, I felt like I was part of something special. Unique and different and...mine. This is what it must feel like after having sex.
Back at the office the doorway was blocked by new bags of mail that had arrived late in the day. They were so heavy it took both Freda and I to carry them into the office. Once there we stacked them on the other mailbags and began working our way through swarms of impassioned letters. Envelopes in hand, sorting into stacks, I kept hearing the screams and laughter in my head, wonderful as it was.
CHAPTER 12: SCHEMING
They wanted John's hair.
"Do you think I will get my purse back?" I moved the letter asking for a lock of John’s hair to a pile for John.
I was still in the afterglow of the concert, but there was still work to accomplish tonight in the office, what with all the new forms and the new bags of letters.
"Probably not. They grab your money and then throw the bag in the trash, and it gets picked up overnight and is placed in a rubbish tip somewhere."
She was right. I didn’t think about that. I needed to think harder and not be such a simpleton. More importantly, the lyrics Paul handed off yesterday needed to be re-written. "Do you think Brian will fire me?"
"For what?"
"Losing the lyrics."
"You were robbed," she shrugged. "I wouldn't."
"Do you think somebody’s actually going to try to record their song?"
"I don’t know. According to Brian it’s possible." She took three letters from her pile and came over to my pile and looked, finding the ones for John. She put hers on top of my letters. "Why does everybody want John’s hair all of a sudden?"
I said, "Probably because it’s long and they know he’s due for a haircut." I completed a stack and moved to the
next. "That Melanie. She was nice to me on the street last night. But after tonight and what Brian said I don’t trust her."
"That’s the smart money talking there."
"You said she’s having an affair with Prescott?"
"That’s the word on the street. She’s married to a banker; I’ve never seen him."
In my hands I know I just had a letter asking for a cloth with Paul’s sweat on it. Ah, there it was. I placed it in the Paul pile. "And what about that altercation in front of the Cavern Club? Why would Prescott call that beautiful woman a tart?"
Freda shrugged.
"Who is the guy with the guitar case again? Marcus…?"
"Marcus Jacobs. He wants to be a musician but he’s awful. He hangs around the Cavern hoping to impress ladies so that he can take them to bed. Be careful of him. He just wants to get into your knickers."
Nodding my head knowingly, I didn’t want to tell her that no one had ever been into my knickers before. Still, if there was a way to figure out where those lyrics were and I could recover them it would be a great service to Brian and take some of the stress off of him. For all I knew someone was recording the song right now and would take the place of the Beatles who had worked so hard to earn their right to record. Finding that letter would do wonders to reduce the guilt I was feeling.
"You know what? I’m going to go out for a few minutes and I might not be back for a little while."
"Where on earth are you going?"
"I am going to speak with Melanie Bumpus. At that club."
"Why on earth would you do that? It's night."
"Because I want to find out more about her."
"Like what? She’s going to try to work you just like she worked Brian. You saw it."
"Perhaps. I just think it’s fishy how I was robbed after she asked me to help her. It doesn’t add up."
Freda pointed up at the wall, "Look at the clock. It’s pretty late. Probably the only place you could find her is inside Prescott’s bar. You’ll never get in."